This Lonesome Sun
by Just the Wind
Summary: The children of heroes grow older and fall in love, and sometimes it's not perfect, and sometimes it won't last, but it's all on the search for perfection that'll last until forever. Can they find it? A collection of one-shots and a variety of pairings.
1. This Lonesome Sun

**a/n**: I've been reading a few of these Next-Gen collections, different pairings written as oneshots between 600 and 3000 words, and I love the idea. I'm getting a bit done with writing Rose and Scorpius for now; I think it's time to give some love to the other children of our favorite heroes. Without further ado, our first coupling:

LysanderLucy (a new [to me] pairing!)

Total word count: 1,011

_As you place the don't disturb sign on the door._

_-Mary Jane, Alanis Morissette_

**this lonesome sun**

"Let's go!" She grabs his hand and laughs her sunshine laugh. "Come on, hurry up!" With a yell and a dazzling smile she runs past him. He stares in awe, her golden hair streaming ahead.

"Oh no you don't!" He counters, grinning himself, "get back here." He chases her forward. Under his feet, green grass presses flat, leaving a trail of crushed foot prints behind. She may have had a head start, but he's faster, and in only seconds he's caught up. He grabs her, lifting her off the ground as he twirls them both. When he sets her down, gently, his rough fingers find her sides and probe. She's soon squealing with infectious giggles.

"Ly!" She scolds between huffing breaths and high pitched laughs, "stop tickling me." He feigns deafness and continues to run his fingers down her waist and stomach, stopping frequently to press or scratch a spot for a moment longer as the shrieks erupt from his blond victim. She, while trying to get away, falls to the ground, and pulls him down after her. They tumble in the grass for a few moments until the rolling comes to a halt, gravity and friction and some other forces in the universe that he has no name for slowing them to a stop. Their chests rise and fall quickly, their breathing fast and their heartbeats irregular.

She's honey and sweetness and perfection overflowing on to him, brighter than the sun even on this beautiful, bright day. And he's always been the moon, absorbing her fire to flicker back, dimly but still glowing enough to pass as bright. She's bubbles and sugar and dreams of fairytales and white knights, while he's no more than damaged goods, a broken heart outfitting a broken boy.

But there's moments, moments like this one now, where they can just lay there, breathing heavily with bright eyes and soaring souls, and both feel whole. Because she may be the girl who seems untouchable, so shining and flawless, but inside she feels like she's crumbling; and he may be the boy who seems dim and flawed, but she know him to be perfection.

It was always him, she smiles up to the sky, it was always him who had her heart. He just never knew it. She always seemed to float along, to be in love with anything and anyone that she encountered, but he always had her, totally and completely. His obliviousness made her sigh.

He loves her. Her honey curls, as wild as she was; her sunny smile, warming him from head to toe. She was everything he always wanted but so remote he knew he'd never have her. But that changed nothing, he loves that wild sunshine girl.

The air is quiet and undisturbed as they lie, basking in the warm summer sun, both deep in strikingly similar thoughts.

It's a strange kind of solitude, they each think, seemingly unrequited love. One feels so alone, like they can confide in no one nor expect any person to understand what they're going through, the strangest part, though is the soaring, the leaping, the undying hope that maybe, just maybe that other person loves you back. Generally they don't. How could they? They're given no warning, just sprung with an announcement from somebody who may have been nothing more than just oh, that person they met once or twice before. And so hearts end up broken and all future confessions are put to a halt before they can even begin. And so people go about their everyday lives, both too scared to tell the other their feelings, and neither ends up knowing that their unrequited love isn't quite so unrequited. Maybe that sunshine girl needs him like a bee needs flowers, and maybe that not-so-broken boy wants her because he thinks she's the glue that will piece him back together, and maybe she is, but he'll never know because he's too damn scared to try.

Their separate broodings are interrupted abruptly by storm clouds filling the horizon. Within moments big rain drops are splashing down on their faces. She pulls together a golden smile that looks almost genuine and pulls his hand.

"We should go in, before it gets worse." She tells him. He nods his approval to the notion. They trudge back up the hill, slowly walking back to the Burrow. He wonders why they aren't running, playfully racing, like before, but he doesn't question her about it. She turns her face down to the mud at her feet, trying to avoid his knowing gaze. Her eyes cloud as she meditates on how close they are but how far they'll always be.

She'll always be the sunshine girl, and he'll always be her moon. He'll always be too broken to be fixed and she'll always turn her face away and cry in the rain, because she knows she could piece him back together and she knows he could heal her aching heart but they both know that she's too free and he's sinking and they're just not meant to fall in love. So they don't, because neither dares to defy the stars that whisper that he'd just screw it up and she'd just run away and it'd never work out.

She doesn't shine so brightly anymore, she's been dimmed by hopelessness, and he doesn't smile so often anymore, the painful cracks in his heart becoming infected as no one bothers to heal them. And maybe he could restore her faith in the world and maybe she could bring back his once easy grin, but he can't and she doesn't and that's that.

**a/n**: If you liked this enough to favorite or put on alert, please don't forget to review!


	2. Our Blackened Paradise

**a/n**: this was going to be about melt-downs, about quitting. It didn't work. Well, it did, but in a much different way. The content is _really_ heavy, just as a warning.

LorcanLucy, another new to me pairing. I promise that I'll stop writing Lucy for a bit, but she wanted to star in this, so here she is.

Total word count: 2,571

**our blackened paradise**

She's a supernova, brighter than any of the stars in the navy sky whilst her energy, fire fire fire, explodes all over the universe. She lights up the entire night for one, two, three seconds, moments, heartbeats and then fades away. To where? He wonders, watching the shell of a girl, drained of all life and blood, her cheeks pale and body limp; where'd she go?

She's bright and pretty and just so picture perfect with rosebud lips and ebony hair and sweet as honey smile that melts off her face, washed away by a few crystal tears before her blue eyes dull and she becomes entirely vacant. Chin up, a grim line set on her mouth, and shoulders held rigidly, the very picture of stubborn bravery, for as long as she can bear before slumping over, defeated and deflated.

He thinks that if he reaches out and clenches his fist, he might be able to grab hold of her before she slips away, really truly gone. So he does, he reaches for a fist full of her but she's smoke and no matter how tightly he grips, she's gone.

Where?

Extinguished and anguished, no fight left in the girl who never backs down, never gives up. No fight to keep her upper lip stiff, so she cries and it's terrible but beautiful and oh so very wrong. He holds up a shaking finger to timidly bush away the tears. She flinches back, as if his touch will be fire. Numbness sets over his bones, freezing his arm, hand, fingers, looking him in this ugly place.

"Go," she commands, her voice wavering with indecision that renders her frail.

"No," he responds quickly, determined to stay. His act, a kind one, causes fresh tears to brim over on her already red eyes. He tries to pull her into a hug, one like the many that she used to pepper him with. She jerks away, the unfamiliar movement ungraceful. She tries to speak, an apology or accusation, neither of them know which, but no words come from her strawberry lips. An untimely hiccup steals away the rest of her dignity. She makes a low guttural sound, a half articulated command for him to leave, but he pretends not to understand and stays seated next to her anyways.

"I'll kill him," he offers, his voice low with anger, "I'll kill him for you, for touching you."

She smiles sadly and shakes her head, eyes trained on her lap, hands folded complacently. "I could never ask that of you. And it wasn't all his fault, anyway."

"What the hell do you mean?" He explodes and his anger is everywhere, consuming everything, and he doesn't mean to but he's yelling at her and she looks even more frightened and sad and oh god, she's crying some more. Instinctively, he reaches out but she's not her, or not like how she usually is, and so she denies him the comfort of an apology and just cries harder.

"Luce," he breathes, and she just looks at him with those clear blue eyes that shine with unshed tears, and he doesn't know if he's ever seen despair like this, certainly never from her.

She sees him hurting and she can't stand it. Her fingers itch towards him and his scent is everywhere and if she just reached out, she could touch him and be in his arms, but she can't because there's a wall between them even if he can't see it, and he'll never break through. It hurts her, which hurts him, which hurts her some more. She thinks she may be dying from the pain of it all, but then his hand brushes hers and she is far too wrapped up in her own thoughts to pull away and now she feels full of light because his fire burns away all the darkness she sees inside.

But then his tender face isn't his anymore, so she leaps up and away because she can't stand to be near him- no she's can't stand the image of that sweet smile twisting into an ugly grimace being replayed behind the dark of her eyes. It's not him, it's not him, it's not him; she thinks so hard that the words themselves fall from her lips. It's not his lips, his sneer she's imagining, but the features are so similar, though the people are not, that she has to back away.

In her stumbled retreat, she back-peddles hastily and runs into a wall, the surface of which painfully collides with the back of her head. She cries out, the terrified noise causing him to flinch.

Dark shadows play across his face, a lace of light and dark, the white moon and the black unknown. She wishes she could shine a blinding light on him, cover him with luminescence and purity, at least to her traitorous eyes; but she can't, so she can't look at him but he's him, so she can't look away, and, oh, she's crying some more.

"Just talk to me." He cries out, his voice strangled and eyes anguished.

She wets her lips, experimentally trying to knock enough courage into her slim frame to provide him with an adequate answer. For a moment, she gapes like a fish, mouth opening and closing repeatedly. He fears that this is all the closure he will get, but, eyes hard and voice robotic, she begins.

"He looks like you," she whispers to the still night air. He doesn't think that she's talking to him anymore; instead she's just speaking to the night and the moon. "He looks just like you. But his voice is different, sharper, and his eyes aren't kind like yours'.

You and I had just parted ways for the night, the way we always did, and then he came. I thought he was you for a moment, that maybe you had forgotten something here and were coming back for it, but his walk was too brisk and not smooth at all like yours is.

I didn't run. I could've run, I should've run!" She cries out, her voice ringing off of the cold stone walls. "But I didn't.

He walked up to me like he owned the place. He pushed me against the wall, my head hit it and it hurt! He just laughed. He called me all sorts of dirty names, telling me I was a slut and a whore, telling me I was getting just what I deserved." A flicker of real emotion played over her face, a mix of deep sadness and absolute terror. He longs to pull her close, to tell her that he'll fix the problem, he'll fix her. But he can't, so he doesn't, and her petite features smooth back into a seamless mask that matches her toneless words.

"He told me that if I was willing to sleep with a mudblood, I must want it pretty bad. I didn't know what he was talking about, George and I never did any of that!

I tried to tell him that he was wrong, but he didn't listen. He put his hands everywhere, they were hot and sweaty and I tried to swat them away but he used them to pin me down.

He put his mouth on mine, and I couldn't breathe. He was choking me with his tongue and strangling me with his hands and then he began unbuttoning my shirt. He wasn't careful, ripping all the buttons off the strings. They fell to the floor with repeated pings, like the sound hail makes as it hits the empty basin of the fountain. The hail was everywhere, the pings were deafening, and then it was melting and moist and he was pressed against me with his mouth sucking and biting even as I screamed no.

He didn't stop." She quiets for a while, her breathing heavy as sobs hitch in her throat and the tears keep falling. It was as if by saying the story, she was finally feeling it, and so she cried for her misfortune. "Why didn't he stop?" She asks softly, allowing the question to hang in the air just like the dust particles that wave in the faint light. He lets the silence fall, heavy and oppressive, over the pair. He guiltily reddens at the cowardly act, wishing that he knew just what to say to stop her tears and make her smile light his whole world up, just like it always does, but he doesn't know exactly what words to use and she doesn't know what she needs to hear and they're both silent.

"I would've," he tells her after a long minute. She gazes up at him, lashes wet with freshly fallen tears, "I would never have done anything you wouldn't have wanted. I would've stopped."

"I know," she trails off, the word unfinished in her mouth as she wonders what his point is. The fact that he wouldn't have hurt her does not alleviate the fact that she was hurt. She tries to articulate this, but he speaks first, voice fast with rising confidence.

"He and I are different people. I wouldn't have done that, but he did. You're upset because you keep looking at me and seeing him, but we're not the same at all." A flush rises in her cheeks as she defends her best friend from her own terrible imaginings.

"Of course you wouldn't have done that! You're so, so…. You! And he, he's mean and terrible and wicked. Oh, of course I know that you're different people and you would never do that to me." He moves with the passionate outburst, taking slow, gliding steps towards her. He moves at a snail's pace, giving her all the time in the world to escape if she needs to. She finds herself wanting to stay, and so does such.

A few moments later finds him still ambling in her direction, and her frozen in place, a look of mixed horror and wanting swallowing her pretty features.

And then he's right in front of her, so close that his warm breath fans across her face and she feels like crying because this is far too similar to before but he's not his brother, he's not his brother, he's not his brother.

"You're not your brother," she affirms, and he nods.

"I'm not him," he breathes, "so tell me to leave and I will,"

She opens her mouth to tell him no, go away, but the words get lost in her head, which is spinning because his hand is reaching up to brush a few strands of dark hair out from her eyes. She tilts her chin up to allow him the easiest few of the errant locks, his green eyes widen with surprise, he had expected her to jump out of his way like before.

Their skin connects and it's like fire but ice and it burns so cold. She's dizzy and breathless and slides down the wall to escape his burning. He takes this retreat to be from loathing or fear, or a combination of the two, and leaps back, putting as much distance between her body and his as possible. He can't help but feel panicked that he may have hurt her, that he may be no better than his brother, the causer of all this pain.

"No," she whispers, her voice airy, "don't leave. Stay. I didn't mean to," but she has no more words and he's not coming closer and her head is spinning but why won't he come over here and burn away all the thoughts that plague her poisoned mind?

He doesn't move, so she reaches out a small hand to pull on his larger, calloused one that hangs at his side. She tugs gently and he responds favorably, which elicits a small smile from her. It's like the clouds are parting and she's the sun, she's always his sun, and he can't help but move closer because she's her and he's him and they've always felt like they were being pulled together.

He sits next to her, neglecting her negative reaction previously on account of her current urging. She settles in next to him, allowing their skin to brush in a few places, sending fire up her spine and raising goose-bumps on the affected areas. He gives her a fond grin and she retorts with a well worn smile and they're them, the way they were before, but they're more than just that because they're moving together in a way that seems more than innocent. Her eyes flutter closed, but he hesitates, afraid to cause her any more distress. This pause isn't acceptable to her, and she pulls him close and they're connected and it's bliss for both, though she's terrified the entire time.

He's not his brother, becomes her mantra as his hands settle loosely around her waist, his lips kind not demanding against her own. She thanks him mentally for this small comfort, his understanding and not pushing her boundaries. She thinks she might have built a wire fence between the two of them, and he can touch her through it but he'll never actually be able to cross and press her to him in the way they both long for.

"Are you sure you're okay?" He asks after her lips stop moving against his and her body feels limp, like it has lost all of its electric tension, under his hands.

"I'm fine," she mutters, but she doesn't feel it and he knows, he knows her. So he stands up and offers her a hand. Blearily, she takes it, her head now pounding with a swirling rush of emotions that leave her unable to process anything but the fact that she wants him far away and needs him so much closer.

He's not his brother, so he leads her back to their common room and sits her down on a couch, pausing to summon a blanket, a pillow, and a warm mug of tea. He gives her the tea, which she drinks with heavy eyes, and then lays her down, tucks her in, and brushes his lips against her forehead. She doesn't flinch.

"I love you," he whispers to her still form, convinced that she's asleep.

"I love you too," she murmurs back, and he smiles bigger than the moon because this means that maybe she doesn't hate him for looking like his brother, something he never dreamed would be a problem until tonight.

From her spot on the couch, she falls asleep with a small smile on her face. Where before a face would have haunted her dreams, angry and demanding, now the same face smiles down on her and she feels safe.

Because he's not his brother, okay? And he'll take good care of her, he'll never take advantage of her, because he loves her.

**a/n**: Awkward ending. Oh well. Thoughts?

_If you liked this enough to favorite or put on alert, please don't forget to review!_


	3. You're All the Home I Need

**a/n**: I like this one. A lot. It rudely interrupted my writing of a different one, though.

Pairing: TeddyVic

Word count: 1514

**you're all the home I need**

Silly to feel so vaguely nostalgic of times that haven't, and most likely will never, happen. Silly to feel a pang in your chest and watch the smile melt off your face as you ponder all those things you have never done, the things you know you will never do. Silly to feel like part of you is leaving as he walks out that door, headed off to somewhere far, far away where he'll undergo amazing adventures and you'll sit here, at home, alone. How silly of you to sit down on the couch, fold your hands in your lap, and allow yourself to cry at all the things that will never be.

He's one of those regrets. He'll always be the one that got away because your lust for adventure just doesn't come anywhere close to his, so he left. You called out, "wait, wait for me!" and he asked if you'd actually come. You, of course, said no. No, you're happy here. You have a life here, family, a stable job. No, you wouldn't come, but you wanted him to wait. Would you have asked him to wait forever, even if he hadn't been so impatient to leave? Would you have been selfish enough to detain him, keep him prisoner here because you couldn't stand the fact that you would have to live without him? Does it even matter?

No, no it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter that yes, you would've gripped his arm and begged him to stay. You would have allowed all these tears to fall, if you knew that they'd stop him, and allow guilt to blossom in his stomach until he was convinced that you'd just die on your own. You would have actually done that, had he not turned his back at your 'no', and left.

Does that make you a bad person? Does it make him an exceptional one? That he knew you so well as to not fall victim to your selfish pleas, had he, you would've been ill from the knowledge of your selfish betrayal. You would've hated keeping him in a state of perpetual unhappiness, but you wouldn't have been able to let go. So he did you a favor, in a way, just breaking free. He saved you from yourself later, while endangering your current state of mind.

Maybe travel wouldn't be so bad. Maybe you'd actually like to see the world. Hike around Japan, explore the beaches of Greece, take a dingy rowboat from a town so small it's practically non-existent to a yurt in the middle of the rainforest in Ecuador. But no, why do that when you can see pictures of Japan, visit the beaches here, and stay in the air-conditioned comfort of your home, here, in London. So you said no, because you're not the type of girl who would leave all the conveniences of home. Not even for the most important person in your life.

As a small girl, you always saw yourself with him. You were the princess, royalty with those golden locks and periwinkle eyes and golden skin that glittered in the early morning sun. You were caviar and champagne to celebrate your sixteenth birthday, the finest of presents from your maman, and a proud smile from papa. And he was your knight in shining armor, the boy that was always, always there to make your grin. He told you that you were beautiful, which you were, and that he loved you, which he did. And you honestly couldn't imagine a life without him.

Now look, he's gone! Because while you may have been a princess, his armor was rusty. Instead of journeying to save you, he wanted to fight dragons just for the hell of it. You were a stop along the way, one that he enjoyed, to be sure, but you weren't his everything. That was precisely the problem; he wasn't fully satisfied with just you, and no more. If you are to be honest, you'd realize that you weren't satisfied with just him, either, otherwise you would have let him lead you around the globe, content to be in one hundred degree weather, covered in bug repellant, exploring some bug-infested jungle, so long as he was there. But he wasn't enough. You needed your tiara, polished with all the diamonds sparkling, and he just couldn't wear a tie for one more day.

But where does that leave you right now, today? Here, that's where. Here in this room, alone, with your life lying in ratted shards at your feet, so sharp with acute pain that they could touch you and you'd actually bleed real, red blood. It leaves here in the sitting room, perched on a couch that feels too stiff and unyielding to your slight weight in a house that feels cold and empty when you're the sole occupant. It leaves your pondering the mistake you just made and whether or not you have the courage to imagine it any other way.

Do you? He turned his back prematurely, directly after his brisk goodbye. He didn't even offer you a spot alongside him on the trip, knowing you'd turn it down. He saw you, and at one time loved you, for what you are, a bloody coward. But you can still see his face in your mind, that sad, sweet smile and those large eyes clouded with frustration. He was frustrated with you, he wanted you to stop him, which you did, but he actually wanted you to come along. He knew he needed to leave, but he wanted you to be there with him. And you, well, you didn't. You stopped him because you thought you needed him to stay, but what he needed was to get out.

You should have gone. You should have grabbed his arm and told him that you'd go anywhere, as long as he was there. You should have blushed at how cheesy your pleading was, and he should have chuckled, and the two of you should have tangled fingers and promised "forever" with the intention of keeping it. But you didn't, silly and selfish; you couldn't bear the thought of losing material comforts.

Look where vanity's gotten you. See how alone you are, how goosebumps run up your arms and regular noises begin to seem eerie without your protector. Feel how cold your flesh is, saturated with the kind of chill that a blanket won't warm. Taste the salt water that runs from your perfect blue eyes as you ponder the fate you created for yourself. Vanity, selfishness, an inability to sacrifice for love; see what it did to you?

So you make up your mind and you stand up suddenly, brush imaginary dirt off your clean, white, linen trousers. You briskly walk upstairs and grab a bag, stuff two pairs of shorts, one pair of jeans, and a few crisp blouses in. You zip it closed with a satisfied smile, grab your wallet and hurry downstairs.

The door opens with a familiar screech, you turn around and lock up, tossing the keys in your pocket after rotating them once. With your back still to the street, you push your chin up. Maybe your act of bravery is belated, but you won't slump as you rush off to find him.

Then you turn around.

And gracelessly run into someone. You drop your bag, and lean down to retrieve it when you catch sight of turquoise hair. Turquoise hair, just like that of your knight in tarnished armor.

Oh! It is him. All the breath leaves your body and your hands begin to tremble. Your pretty mouth opens and words begin to gush out, overlapping each other as you try so desperately to get him to understand your current intentions.

"You. I couldn't leave you and be selfish and alone and cold! So cold!" And he's him, he's your knight, so he knows just what you mean, even if you have no clue what you're saying, so he pulls you close. He smells like pine trees and smoke and that cologne you bought for him last month.

"I was coming back for you. Turns out, home is harder to leave when you're there," he speaks into your hair, saying the perfect words to make you remember even more why he's the perfect man for you.

"I love you," is all you manage to choke out before he notices your luggage and reads your intentions.

"Were you," he asks incredulously, "actually planning on traveling with me?" and you nod yes, yes you were, and yes you will because now that you're so close, you can't even stand the thought of watching him walk away again.

He bends down for a perfect kiss and it's bliss because his body's always fit perfectly against yours and it really doesn't matter where in the world you are, because he's home. How silly of you to ever forget that.

**a/n**: If you liked this enough to favorite or put on alert, please don't forget to review!


	4. Eye of the Beholder

**a/n: **There's some swearing in this, nothing too bad, but just warning you.

Pairing: TeddyVic (yes, another one of them. I dearly love this pairing)

Word Count: 2,000

WARNING- you do not need to read the rest of this author's note. It's long. It's unnecessary. It's probably not that interesting. BUT, it's a story that I'd like to share. So, read if you'd like, but it's irrelevant to the rest of this story (that's actually a lie, it kinda inspired this story, but you really don't have to read it).

I just did this theatre presentation a few days ago. The assignment was to come up with a piece that would be played by other actors in the class, who would only be given five minutes of instruction before performing, that worked with a song of our choice. My song was an old favorite of mine, 500 Miles by the Kingston Trio. It's a song about a train leaving the station, about departure. I loved my idea, and my actors could not have done a better job representing it on stage. I had three separate couples, one that was passionate and romantic but in an angry way, one that consisted of a mother and daughter, and one that was deeply in love and dreaded an inescapable parting. Couple one went on stage first, they had a huge (silent) argument. About halfway through, couple two joined them, the mother embracing her daughter and wishing her (silently) luck for her future at a boarding school. The daughter was quietly angry first, but then gradually forgave her mother and embraced her as well. Couple three then joined the other two on stage, a soldier going to war and leaving his girlfriend behind. They hugged and kissed and cried (silently). Once all three couples were on stage, the girl from couple one stormed off, and the boy sat down, head in his hands with quiet grief. Gradually, the mother and daughter broke apart and faded away. After some time, couple three had their final embrace and left in their separate directions. Finally, just as the song was wrapping up, the girl from couple one slowly came back on stage, sat down next to the boy, and intertwined their fingers. To me, the song is about loss, about letting go of people. Each story had loss, but the one that ended on the worst terms wasn't actually over. It was beautiful, just so powerful to witness. Listen to the song; it's an incredible piece of music. After seeing fifteen other presentations with music for class, mine remained my favorite, and not out of vanity. Honestly, it just represented the way I write- sad but sweet.

Sorry for thee obnoxious story, but I felt the need to share this idea with someone who would understand. At this point, just the author's note takes up almost a page. This must be some kind of record.

**eye of the beholder**

"Get out!" She yells, her face coloring with rage.

"What the hell?" He questions, his voice loud, spit flying from his mouth and speckling across her face. She wipes a droplet off her cheek with the back of one of her dainty hands. "I'm not even allowed to talk to other women? Do you think you own me or something?"

"You, you, you," she splutters, eyes dark and fists balled at her sides, "you weren't just talking!"

"Oh yeah," he retorts, still screaming, "because I wasn't just trying to make pleasant conversation with your cousin, or anything."

Her voice is hoarse, scratching her throat. She has to cough briefly before speaking again. "That wasn't making conversation, asshole, that was flirting. Do you want to get in her pants? Is that it?"

"Of course that's what I want," his eyes bulge as he turns a shade of red, "I want to have sex with your sixteen year old cousin. Because I totally dig chicks so young they're practically in diapers!"

"This isn't time for your damned jokes," she screeches, her voice rising to octaves that hurt his ears. He winces overdramatically.

"Well it sure as hell isn't time for your jealousy, either. That's what this is, you're jealous! You're worried that I'll run off with a newer, better model of y-"

"Shut up! Just shut up!" Tears spring to her eyes as he strikes a nerve. He's aware of the very real pain that flashes across her eyes, and decides to dig deeper.

It's cruel, he knows, twisting the knife with words sharper than polished steel. But he can't help it, the mean sounds flood out of his mouth. "You think I'll leave you for her. Maybe I should, I bet she doesn't bitch every time I freaking talk to someone else."

Her eyes widen. He knows he went too far, barreling past the point of forgivable offenses, but he keeps going. It's a dirty but burning hunger, pushing him to keep hurting her. It doesn't make any sense, but it he justifies it as repayment for her constant screeching. "I bet Lily would love me. We could run off and be happy and she'd never, ever scream at me for something as idiotic as this!"

She takes a step back, a few tears falling. In the blinking light of their kitchen he can see each green vein that creeps up her arm, the calluses worn down on her palms, even the frizz of misplaced red hair that halos her head. Here in the kitchen, with her face covered in foundation, mascara, rouge, powder; with her feet arched into heels that make each bone on her foot protrude; here with her all made up from what was supposed to be a nice night out at a gala with many name-less, face-less people, all the layers of lies and protection she coats herself with fall away, just for him. And he can see it all.

Spots of blood rush to her cheeks and they flush red with humiliation. She knows he can see past everything, as she should because she did choose to let him it, but that was only because she never expected he'd do what he was doing now- take advantage of it all.

"Lily wouldn't need me to tell her she was beautiful." He sneers, a feeling of guilt blossoming in his stomach the moment he utters the cruel words.

She gasps, eyes wide with pain. The tears begin to fall and he steps forward, trying to take her in his arms and apologize in repentance for the sentence that had just fallen from his lips.

"Go," the word raggedly tears from her mouth. He shakes his head, trying to clear out the mean fog and replace it with clear, cold air that would allow him to think and speak without hurting her further. She turns her heel and walks out of the kitchen, disappearing into the dark hallway. He takes a few steps to follow her, his footfalls loud in the now silent flat. He thinks he might catch up to her, but she opens the door, which squeaks in a protest that he seconds absolutely, and leaves.

It hits him like a ton of bricks.

She makes it out of their shared flat, eyes damp but cheeks devoid of any new tears. She prides herself on this, not letting him break her down completely. Her congratulations are short lived, however, as she encounters a couple twined together a mere hundred feet from the place she decides never again to call home. Watching the pair kiss, she feels her stomach sinking and her heart aching and all of her stoic walls crumbling down. She feels herself breaking apart.

People bustle past, unconcerned, as first one tear falls, then another, and then so many that she can't breathe anymore. She thinks that she might asphyxiate on her grief, that the very weight of her sadness may crush her into nothing. She briefly wishes for this fate, but her torn heart keeps beating and can't bring herself to actually make an active effort to stop it.

The sobs consume her, and she finds it impossible to keep moving forward, further away from him, so she stops walking and just leans against a graffitied wall, eyes reddening and breath hitching in her throat- causing her to gasp in the most undignified way, she'd be humiliated by the noises if she was able to think about anything but their parting words.

Lily wouldn't need him to tell her she was beautiful. And Lily was beautiful. And she wouldn't ask, or demand, that he stop talking to other girls. And she was beautiful. And she was beautiful. And she was beautiful. So, so beautiful. And they'd be happy together, with her confidence and his easy charm.

And what did Victoire have? She asks herself, eyes cast down on the sidewalk. The concrete was blotched by black spots of gum. Dirt caked the lines in-between the squares. How many feet had walked this path? And she was just one more person to travel this way. The insignificance of all this hit her all at once, making her head ache and her body feel heavy, weighted down by deep ponderings and the sensation of loss.

What did she have, anyway? All she could think of was him, but she didn't actually have him anymore. Lily had him. Lily had it all, beauty, smarts, and her Teddy. Lily had the ability to love and the capacity to be loved. Victoire didn't have this, and she was painfully conscious of the fact.

Strangers continue to walk past, unaware of the chasm that had opened up in her chest. Victoire was blind to all of them, and they, for the most part, were blind to her. Out of pity for the poor girl, they turned their eyes away, minding their own business. That was life in the big city of London, where so few spaces were truly private that the most public of areas became the safest of havens for those that wanted to get away from it all.

Finally, one woman stopped to observe the crying girl. She was leaning against a wall, black mascara running down her face along with shining tears. Her hair was in disarray, red curls springing free of the pins that had been used to hold them in place. The girl was young, maybe twenty five, and dressed to the nines. The woman herself was large and matronly, dressed in comfortable clothing befitting for a housewife and mother.

"Dear, what's wrong?" The woman asks, knowing that she may not receive an answer, but too distressed by the poor child to not inquire.

A million possible answers flash through Victoire's mind. Everything. Him. Me. Nothing. I'm not beautiful. She can't settle on just one, so she stays silent. The woman mistakes her silence for not wanting to be mettled with, and, out of respect for the strange girl, begins to back away. "No," Victoire rasps, "please stay." And she doesn't know what it is, but this woman is comforting and she really needs comfort right now.

The woman moves closer, out of the way of the passing pedestrians. Victoire's eyes overfill, and now she's crying because somebody, even just this random woman who stopped off the street, cares, and she's touched.

"He doesn't love me anymore," she finally responds, because she doesn't know what more there is to say.

"Oh, honey," the woman murmurs sympathetically, rubbing Victoire's back gently.

"And how can he," she continues, "I'm not her, I'll never be. I'm not good enough. She's always happy and always beautiful and she doesn't need the way I do. I need him. But he doesn't need me, just like she doesn't need him; neither of them needs anyone because they're fine on their own. So they're perfect for each other.

"And she's beautiful, even without him telling her. I need him to tell me because I'm not. And she's whole, and I've never been whole.

"And it's not even just her. He doesn't like me. He said he loved me, and I think he did, but he never liked me. How can you like someone that you have to constantly reassure? How can you like someone who isn't beautiful without you? And even with you, needs to hear those words?

"He got tired of me. I'm tired of me."

"Oh, honey," the woman repeats, pausing to consider her words, "for what it's worth- and I'm sure it's not worth much- I think you're beautiful. But that's not all; I think that you need to know that you're beautiful. And I can't, and he can't, give you that.

"As for him, if he can't love you no matter what, he's not worth it."

Victoire dries her eyes and gives a small smile to the woman, "thank you," she whispers, her voice hoarse from the combined small chatter, screaming, and sobbing that the night had brought.

"I'm Astoria," the woman, Astoria, embraces her.

"Victoire," she introduces herself.

"Here's my telephone number," Astoria scribbles something onto a scrap of paper produced from her large purse, "give me a call if you need anything, or just want to talk. I'm always here, dear,"

Victoire's smile grows, "thank you so much." The pair embrace again.

"Vic! Vic!" Both turn their heads at the frantic call, "oh thank god, Vic, I've looked everywhere!" From the mass of people comes a man, eyes wild, cheeks flushed from running. His clothing is rumpled from lying prostrate in despair for a while after she left. "Oh god, Vic, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have said it, I can't believe I said that. You know I could never, never ever, love anyone else. Vic, love, I can't live without you. Please forgive me?" He's here. Teddy, her Teddy, stands before her, speaking in the fast, agitated manner that he assumes whenever he's distressed.

Astoria smiles and takes a few steps back, giving the pair their space. The strangers that stream by on the street curve around the trio, making a small bubble of space around the small group. Victoire glances over at the motherly figure of Astoria, asking with her eyes what she should do. Astoria gives a small, almost imperceptible, nod, and Victoire falls forward into Teddy's arms. He holds her and makes promises into her fiery hair never to let her go.

"You're beautiful," he whispers to her. She glances up at him, searching his face for the tell-tale flash of guilt after a lie. She finds none.

"I know." She tells him. Astoria smiles and merges back into flow of passing people.

**a/n: **Please, please don't favorite/alert without reviewing!


	5. Pretty Smiles Dull Sharp Edges

**a/n**: Back to my old tricks, that is to say, plot-less fics. I tried, I actually did try to give this a story, but Dominique and Lorcan just wanted to be written. I like the emotion and the descriptions, and I'm really interested to hear what y'all think. Two stories in one day: an unusual occurrence from me. But I'm a cheater, this doesn't count as two. I wrote this a while ago (actually with Teddy and Vic (*sigh*) and just now got around to publishing. Author fail.

LorcanDom

Word count: 1,083

_Feeling so ambitious_

_You and me, flesh to flesh_

_-Your Call, Secondhand Serenade_

**pretty smiles dull sharp edges**

He likes her like this, all smooth and liquid in his arms. He likes her teeth glinting in the dim light as her cherry lips pull into a wide smile; he like her hair cascading down the well-worn arm of the chair, a waterfall of pure platinum; he likes her eyes, impossibly bright with a mischievous light peeking through the navy blue; he likes, no he loves, her arms winding tightly around him as she mutters threats about never, ever letting him go.

That chair by the fire, the one that's been worn thread-bare by countless studious Ravenclaws, nestling into its velvet depths to escapee into a book, school work, a lover. Sometimes it is moved, adjusted until it faces the sun's gentle rays, but it's always there and it's always been their place.

She loves him. She loves him. She loves him. Loves loves loves loves loves. The realization makes her chest rise and her heart beat erratically. Dominique is a girl of reason, of white and black and no shades of grey because that's how the world words and emotions are silly, useless excuses for silly, useless people and love just doesn't exist, okay? But it does, it does, it does, and this hits her like a ton of bricks. She almost cries out, the figurative blow causing very real pain, but then she sees his face and she's left voiceless and breathless and it doesn't hurt so much anymore because he's like sunshine and summer and his smile heals.

He saw it long before her. He's the Ravenclaw, no Hufflepuff, no, RAVENCLAW (Are you sure, child? the hat asked.), so he's always been bright. He knew, from the very start he knew, that this is love, the real kind, just like Cathy and Heathcliff, except they aren't terrible, selfish people, he hopes.

He's always been a dreamer, head in the clouds, so he never didn't believe in love. Even as she lectured about love just being hormones, but yes, she'll go out with him, and my, it took him long enough to ask; he knew even then that it was, or would evolve to be, love. After she said yes, they snogged, he remembers fondly, leaning down to press a kiss to the hair of the girl in his arms, the very same girl as his memory and in all of his dreams.

"Mmmmm," she sighs from his arms, smiling contentedly up at him.

He loves that smile, the one where she parts her lips only a bit, letting them rise into an honest show of affection instead of her usual smirk. He loves how her eyes crinkle a bit whilst sparkling a lot. That smile, he knows, is his. It never shines for anyone else; she never shines for anyone else.

"Yeah," he agrees, but to nothing in particular. The moment, maybe, maybe he just agrees to the moment, he doesn't know. What he does know is that he wishes he could stay like this forever because this, her in his arms with that wonderful smile, is heaven.

She smiles up at him, brighter than the sun, and he is dazzled for a minute. She's breathtaking. She's perfection, pouty pink lips, long silver-gold hair, wide navy eyes framed by unusually dark lashes. And oh Merlin, there she goes smiling again and now he really, truly can't breathe because she's so her, so Dominique, and he could never want anything more.

She settles into his lap a little more, wriggling her lithe body further into his. She burrows her head into his chest, just breathing in his perfect scent of apples and grass and spicy cinnamon. She doesn't know exactly what she likes best about him, but if she had to make a list, his amazing smell would be high on it. Also his hair, she thought, running her fingers through said locks. He exhales with pleasure, his hair changing colors as he watches with a grin her smiling in response. He always changed his hair for her, making it hot pink or bright yellow just to see her lips part and her eyes sparkle with curiosity, wonder, love.

"I love you," she whispers into his chest, voice quiet so as not to break this crystal moment. And it's the first time she's uttered these words, but not anywhere near the first time she's felt them.

"I know," he smiles fondly. Her eyes widen in surprise, her declaration not having been met by the adequate amount of shock. "And of course," he chuckles, a low rumbling sound that makes his chest vibrate against her lean form, "I love you back."

The sunlight sparkles around the entwined pair, lighting them both so that their skin sparkles and they look like Greek gods for a moment, but then the glass shatters and they go back to being people, the children of heroes but not two immortal gods.

She's perfection, but not quite because there exists no such thing as perfection in the world, as she'd say. And he's incredible, but not really because he feels quite ordinary most of the time. She's logic, logic, logic and hard facts with solid lines that have no in-between because she can't tell, she can't make definitive decisions when there's more than just options, when there's emotions. She's hard, never bending because bending means breaking. But he's here and he's holding her and she's finding herself loose and liquid in his arms with smiles coming easy and a radiance making her glow, inside and out.

And he likes her like this, when she leaves it all behind and just lets herself feel and love and shine. He likes her, no he loves her like this, he loves her shining.

**a/n**: If you liked this enough to favorite or put on alert, please don't forget to review!


	6. Our Jagged Edges Don't Line Up

**a/n: **it's short. But I rather like it.

Pairing: RoseTeddy (new to me)

Word count: 879

Dedicated to: Tardisandafirebolt because she likes this pairing and I like her.

_So glide away on soapy heels_

_And promise not to promise anymore_

_-The Chain, Ingrid Michelson_

**our jagged edges don't line up**

She hates him, hates him, absolutely abhors the boy but he's here, even when she told him not to be, and he's singing. And she can't help it because his voice is perfection and he's crooning their song and she misses him a lot more than she'd care to admit. A lot more. Because, even though she told everyone that she was much, much happier without him- the truth remained that she wasn't, and never could be. And he knew it. If he thought she could survive without him, he wouldn't be doing this. He isn't cruel or selfish, if she could breathe without him, he'd leave her be. But she couldn't, and he missed her too.

His voice floats -aided by magic, of course- up to her bedroom window. The words, worn into her memory with a different, though no less sweet, voice, are familiar. She can't help but hum along, swaying slightly to the music.

"Rosie," he asks when the song is over, his speaking voice as rich as his singing voice, "come down here. Talk to me,"

She finds herself complying, hurrying down the stairs that creak in protest, without even a second thought. She hates herself for this, for obeying his gentle commands even when they're not getting along.

He waits patiently for her on the grassy hill, knowing the moment her face disappears from the window that she'll be joining him shortly. He smiles to himself, half in pride and half in anticipation.

"Forgive me," he asks smoothly, persuasively.

"I can't," she replies, stubborn as ever. He knew before coming here that she would hold firm at first, but he knows her well, and he knows that he can –as bad as it sounds- break her. And she'll forgive him, because she has to.

"Try," he responds. She closes her eyes and breathes in deeply. The scent of roses washes over her and she smiles with unconscious contentment. He brought roses. He knew, of course, that she only pretends to hate roses because of her name, and that she actually adores the beautiful flower.

"I can't," she repeats, opening her eyes slowly to take in his lanky form.

"But I love you," he reasons, his voice still gentle. She winces now, the words she knows she has to say tasting bitter in her mouth.

"That's not enough anymore," he steps back in shock, eyes widening with her steady tone. This wasn't supposed to happen. She was supposed to take him back, she always takes him back.

They're the on-again, off-again couple, perfect for each other but each never really enough to sustain the other. He's silent, unsure of what to say next now that she's denied him unexpectedly.

"I'm sorry," he offers, but the words sound shallow to his ears. Tears are welling up in her eyes but she blinks them back, determined not to cry. She has to do this, has to end it once and for all. She can't stand him walking in and out of her life. He choose to leave last time, even as she demanded that he stay or never be allowed back. He still left. And it hurt so badly that she swore to herself never to let it happen again, so here she was, ensuring it never happened again. And it hurt.

"No," she's firm, her voice steady.

"I'll never leave again," he vows, earnest. She knows that now he'd never leave again, but he's Teddy and she's Rose, and they're both so passionate that it's bound to happen that they end up screaming at each other and he's bound to storm out of their apartment, swearing never to return. So now he may never leave, but later he will, because that's just what Teddy Lupin does.

"I love you," she whispers, her voice soft and tender, caressing the words, "but that's not enough. It's not enough anymore," her quiet voice echoes her previous statements in words, but the tone is devoid of passion, of fire. It's flat and honest.

"What would be enough?" he asks, his normally calm voice wild with desperation.

"Nothing," she tells him, stepping closer, "I can't ask you to change for me, and you can't ask me to change either. We are who we are, and who we are doesn't fit together. Love just isn't enough sometimes."

She presses a chaste kiss to his rough cheek, turns her heel, and leaves.

He always thought that they'd end in fire, blazing their way to failure, before renewing yet again. He always thought they'd always be together, except when they weren't- and that would just be because of a violent explosion. He never imagined a real, true ending, especially one so calm and devoid of screaming as this. He watches her go, knowing he could call after, or grab her arm and yank her back. But he does neither because he also knows that it'd make no difference what-so-ever, and that she'd just leave again later.

She doesn't glance back over her shoulder. An icy chill crawls over her skin, cooling her down to her fragile bones. She shivers. Without the passion, the yelling and screaming, the air is cold. Tears finally fall, and she hums their song, her soft voice sounding off-key now.

**a/n**: don't forget to review! PLEASE!


	7. Pretty, Pretty Perfection

**a/n**: I'm doing a good job of writing frequently, but y'all aren't doing so great on the reviewing front. Let's try to improve that, okay?

As for this piece, I have mixed emotions. It's weird, but I kind of like it. I think. I don't know, maybe it's too emotional and not descriptive enough of the tangible things. You tell me.

Pairing: LyDom

Word count: 851

**pretty, pretty perfection**

"I really messed it up this time, didn't I?" He asks, but he already knows the answer is a resounding yes. She's pretty, pretty perfection and she has enough options that it wouldn't pain her too much to exclude him from his position as an eligible fit. He knows that this is the end, that's it, show's over folks, for him.

See, because it was all just a little game for him and an equally insignificant game for her. It was nothing more than skin on skin, flesh on flesh. Kisses and bites with no feeling. No attachment, it was just hot stolen kisses with no attachment. That was the fun of it all, the lack of emotion. Emotion made things messy, she knows, and she likes neat and clean and perfect straight lines that don't deviate from the expected.

But it couldn't just be that. Of course it couldn't, because these things never work out perfectly, they never break with perfect edges that aren't ragged with pain. And it was her, enchanting eyes and hair perfectly tucked into a bun, so it was natural that he fell.

She knew it was happening, she knew he was falling in love with her and she couldn't stop it. She tried, good lord did she try, but he started wanting to talk about futures and dreams and she couldn't help herself. In a family like hers, nobody listened to the individual's ideas, but he wanted to hear. So she spoke. And with each perfect word, he fell harder.

She nods her head and a strand falls from the perfectly slicked back twist. She nods yes, yes he did mess it up. And then her nodding becomes vigorous and she can't stop because all she can think about was how much he ruined and how now he was ruining her hair and why couldn't she just stop?

"I'm sorry," he says simply, like that'll fix everything. But it won't, it won't! And she tries to tell him this but her mouth is too dry to speak and her head is spinning and her hands are clenched tight in her lap because otherwise they may do something stupid, like run themselves through his hair.

Oh his hair! Dark brown, almost black, now. Somber, like the mood in this empty classroom. The sun is setting and paints the small piece of sky visible from the window orange, but she doesn't glance up at the beauty and he's too busy watching her to bother looking. The orange light does strange things to her hair, too, making strands glitter gold.

"Doesn't matter," she finally responds, tearing her eyes off him, instead focusing her intense gaze on a spot of dirt on the white wall behind him. Her voice comes out hard and cruel, making the words taste bitter in her mouth. She watches that unmoving spot, determined to keep her eyes, and her hands, off of him.

She speaks the truth, of course. It didn't matter in the slightest, his infringement. It would be rather hypocritical if she were to get angry at him over the infraction, when she herself had opened up to him, despite the strict rules she had put in place from the start. It wasn't going to be about love, or commitment, or heavy sighs and small smiles. It was going to be about hands, grabbing, squeezing, pulling her closer, before she'd push him away and they'd go on with their day, not thinking one more thought about the other until they both had a spare moment and were near an unoccupied broom closet.

He, though, mistakes her curt phrase to indicate that his apology was ineffective, just as he suspected it would be. She had meant nothing of the sort. He gets up, rising from the red velvet couch to leave. He can't be here, can't stay near her and her stormy eyes and hair pulling loose from the severe style one ringlet at a time.

She can't stand the thought of him leaving. Because if he leaves now, it'll be forever, and forever's the kind of thing she thinks of frequently when they're together. So she grabs his hand and yanks him back down. He looks at her and she can't help it, can't help it, can't help but crash towards him and press her lips to his.

The kiss continues for longer than she thought possible. It ends up with her in his lap, his fingers tangled so much in her hair that she has to untie the elastic band and set her mane free to release him. He looks confused and she looks pleased and they both have a little twinkle in their eyes that looks suspiciously like love.

"I think I might love you," she breathes. He touches her hair, her lips, her cheeks; exploring her face with gentle fingers.

"I love you," he tells her.

It's not neat and clean, with straight edges and unbending lines. It's full of emotion, so it's messy and even painful sometimes. But she's her and he's him and together they're pretty perfect.

**a/n**: Review!


	8. Give and Take, Bend and Break

**a/n:** yay! A new chapter!

Pairing: MollyTeddy

Word Count: 2038

_She said what are you waiting for, kiss her, kiss her_

_I said my clock's early because I know I'm always late._

_-A Little Less Sixteen Candles, Fall Out Boy_

**give and take, bend and break**

"Moll," he whispered, caressing her name with his lips. She blinked back tears, her eyes turning glossy.

"Don't 'Moll' me, Teddy" she said, her voice harder than she meant it to be. Just to back up her words, she tilted her chin up and pursed her lips, just like he knew she always did when she was trying to appear tough.

"Moll," he tried again. Her throat constricted and she found herself unable to respond. He mistook her silence for permission to continue, "you know I love you, but,"

That 'but' made her eyes widen so much that he had to take a step back, momentarily scared that she'd physically try to hurt him. It was almost funny, really, as she was an imposing figure, even though she only stood a little over one and a half meters tall and weighed less than 45 kg. But she was still dangerous looking, with ebony hair and ebony eye liner and ebony clothing and an ebony attitude to match, though he knew the last was just a cover.

"But what?" She hissed. All the tears evaporated in an instant, leaving her just angry. He understood her anger, what he was saying seemed selfish, but she was just too young to understand that it was what was best for her.

"But we can't do this," he finished.

"Yes we can," she snapped, forcing her chin even higher with defiance, "we can do this, or we could, but you're just too much of a damn coward."

"You know that's not true," he tried to persuade her, his voice soft. But the words sounded weak to his ears and he knew that she was right. That he was too much of a coward to try to make their imperfect love last past all the obstacles he knew they'd have to face. Because she may be Molly, girl of leather and studs and a tough exterior, but she wasn't as different from Lily as she liked to pretend; she still believed in happy endings and love conquering all, even if she would never admit it. And he had just lived too long to have faith that it'd end up like she imagined. So maybe he was a coward, but he was a wise one, one who wouldn't let themselves fall in love with a girl who would just bring eventual pain.

There lay the problem, though, the flaw in his plan: no matter how much he refused to let himself fall in love with Molly, he still did. She just wasn't allowed to know that, because she'd abuse that and use that as a way to crack him open and worm her way even farther into his heart. His plan had been to keep her at arms' length, but she kept creeping closer.

"Coward," she muttered.

"I'm not-" he tried, but he stopped himself before saying anymore because he didn't think he could handle telling her any more lies.

"Whatever Teddy," she rolled her eyes and heaved a sigh. He was impressed, almost, at how quickly she recovered from this huge blow. If not for the single line of black that trailed down her face from when her façade momentarily slipped, he would never know that she was upset. But she was, because she never cried, not ever, and the evidence of a tear adorned her fair cheek.

"Moll," he whispered, but he had no more to say, and she knew it. She turned and walked away and he could have sworn that he heard the sound of his heart ripping in half.

She never grieved in public. Never. Not even when her grandmother and namesake passed away, she still acted just like how she always did the next day. She just let the wound fester inside her mind, keeping her awake at night. And so nobody noticed. The dark rings from the sleepless nights were easily covered with more white powder every morning before she drew thick black lines of kohl around her bright blue eyes. Her lips, painted a startling red every day, never once quivered. She was proud of that; of what she thought was courage that kept her chin up even when she felt like she was breaking in half.

And she felt like she was breaking in half all the time. Every moment of every day she felt like there was a weight on her shoulders, pressing her into the ground. She resisted, which was more than what could be said for him. He was always the weaker of the pair, and was crushed flat by the parting.

Nobody saw anything of him for weeks, he just hid in his flat eating and sleeping and grieving his own cowardice. He dreamt she was there every night, and in his dreams he was able to tell her all those things he never had the courage to when he was awake: that he loved her, that he missed her, that she meant the world to him. In his dreams he always followed the statement, spoken firmly and without a care to what troubles would be in store for the couple, with a kiss. He could imagine her lips pressed against his, her perfect, red, plush lips covering his own with passion and hunger that went back as long as she had been alive, really.

But he couldn't hide forever, try as he might. One day, a month after the two parted, his best friend showed up on his doorstep and forced entrance into the apartment.

"What are you doing here, Lily?" He asked tiredly. He was exhausted. He hadn't done anything, and the weight of this failure along with the bigger failures of his life made him just want to curl up and sleep.

"You're pathetic." She announced. And it was true, he knew, glancing down at his own form. He was disgusting. He couldn't remember the last time he showered, or went outside, or even changed his clothing. He was rotting away in his own body, powerless to stop the decay because he just didn't have the strength to go on living without her.

"And?" He looked at her, hoping she'd either get to the point or leave him alone. He wanted to sleep. Sleep was a good escape, he found, he could dream about Molly and she'd be there and actually want to see him.

"Well," she began with that Slytherin sneer of hers, "are you just going to sit here, or are you going to win her back?" Without even asking permission, she moved into his kitchen and busied herself tidying it up. Dishes stacked precariously high were piled all around in the small space, exploding out of the sink in a mess of left over food and drink.

"And how do you propose I do that?" He questioned, still hoping she'd leave. He really needed to sleep.

"Get your life back together. This hiding is exactly why you two aren't dating. Because you're a coward, and at the moment, a disgusting coward. When was the last time you showered?"

"Don't know," he mumbled, sulking under her intense gaze.

"Well off with you then!" She practically yelled. He slinked to the small bathroom and started the water. Once she was satisfied that he was actively cleaning himself, she stuck her head in the door. "I'm going to wash your clothing. It's gross. There's some nice, clean, trousers and shirt folded over here for when you get out."

"Lily!" He shrieked, almost girlishly, "what if I hadn't been behind the curtain? You would've seen me naked!"

"Oh please," she rolled her eyes, "like I've never seen a naked boy before. You've got to be kidding me. Besides, you're like my brother." And with that she shut the bathroom door and went back to tidying up the small living space that he had so dirtied during his period of isolation.

After a few more minutes he stepped out, dressed in the clothing she had set aside. "Looking good," she told him with a smile. He gave her a small grin back, and it wasn't much but it was genuine.

"Thanks," he said honestly, glancing around the now clean space, "for the cleaning and the kick in the ass to get back to living."

"It's what I'm here for," she replied, giving him a peck on the cheek, "now, are you just going to let her get away, or are you going to win her back?"

"Do I have to answer that?" he groaned, half anxious to see Molly's face again, and half filled with dread.

"No. I know the answer. You're going to win her back, so let's get going." And she practically dragged him to the door. He muttered something about intimidating Weasley girls, which she chose to ignore.

The pair apparated to the Burrow, where a family dinner was taking place. Teddy had gotten an owl with an invite, but he had been moping around too much to even consider going.

"Teddy," Harry said with a welcoming smile, "good to see you." Ginny rushed to him, arms out for a hug.

"We've missed you," she told him. He hugged her back tightly, unexpectedly glad to see her motherly face.

"And I've missed you," he said honestly, "all of you," he added, surveying the large gathering of Weasley-Potters lounging on every available surface for sitting.

The clan responded with various "missed you, too"s coming from every direction. Ginny ushered Teddy over to an open chair.

"Anything I can get you, dear?" she asked. He shook his head no.

She was standing in the corner, dressed in the all black that she always wore. The shadows fell over her face, and he wouldn't have seen her except for the fact that to him, she always shone. Not a flicker of an expression passed over her pale face, and he found his heart sinking with disappointment at the lack of reaction.

Dinner was the loud family affair it always is when everyone is seated at one table. Or rather, four tables pushed together and magically stretched to accommodate everyone. He listened to old stories being repeated, laughed at the old jokes being told, and shared the same old tricks of manipulating his features with all the amused members of the group. Finally, though, the food was done being served and the family split into smaller groups to have hushed conversations. Hugo, Lucy, and James went to the table before the fire to play cards; Ginny, Harry, Hermione, and Ron reminisced quietly about their youth; Rose and Scorpius earned a seething glare from Ron as the two linked hands and giggled their way up the stairs to Rose's bedroom. Lily gave Teddy a pointed glare and he sighed defeat.

"Can we talk?" He quietly asked, staring into those familiar blue eyes that never failed to enchant him.

"Fine," she sighed, rolling her eyes.

"Somewhere more private?" He questioned, slowly maneuvering the pair out of the kitchen doors to the large expanse of the back yard.

She was silent as the walked, turning her face down to the lush green grass.

"Moll," he finally said, his voiced hushed. She stiffened at the familiar nickname, "I missed you."

"It was your choice to go," she snapped.

He took a deep breath and reached out a calloused hand to tilt her chin up. "I made a mistake," he said simply, and then pressed his lips to hers.

It was everything he imagined it would be. She put her hand on his chest in a half-hearted attempt to push him away, before just relaxing into it. Her body fit against his perfectly.

"Moll," he said after they broke apart, "I love you."

She gazed up at him, her eyes wide with the innocence that he loved, "no buts?" she asked. In that moment she seemed vulnerable, more fragile than he could ever remember seeing her be before.

"No buts." He confirmed.

**a/n:** Please, please don't favorite or alert without reviewing!


	9. Yes, No, Maybe So

**a/n**: I don't think I've ever written a HP OC. Weird. Lovely, though, in this (I think). Tickling is a big part, it seems, of how I am around people. So there's tickling in this, and there will be tickling in the next few. And no, tickling is not code for something else. Perv.

If updates slow, great, that means I'm focusing my writing to where it should be going- my book. But, if you'd still like to see some oneshots here, make sure to review and tell me!

Word count: 1173

Pairing: RoxanneOC

**yes, no, maybe so**

She thinks she might love him. She doesn't quite know what love is, or if she believes in it, but she knows that she can't help but stare at his lips, his eyes, his hair; and feel butterflies anytime he's around. She knows she thinks of him constantly, and remembers everything he says with striking clarity. She knows exactly what to joke about to tease a laugh from his wide lips, a chuckle that makes his blue eyes twinkle slightly and crinkle at the edges. She knows him, and loves everything about what knowledge she's gleamed.

They start out ordinarily enough, her futzing around in the boys' dressing room, fixing hair and straightening ties before waving away the male actors. They thank her plentifully, playfully afraid of her bad temper. In all reality, she isn't angry frequently, and never at them, a fact that they are aware of. He slips into the dressing room to laugh with a friend. She sees him out of the corner of her eye, but doesn't pay much attention to the boy.

Later, in the girls' dressing room his name is mentioned, "oh yeah, there are plenty of attractive guys that go unnoticed, like that techie, Henry." Colleen says with flawlessly enunciated words. Her appearance is that of an old woman, with gray streaked through her chestnut hair and tawny lines marking her face like wrinkles. Roxanne takes a moment to smile at her own handiwork- under all that make-up is a teen girl.

"Henry!" Chimes in another girl, Natalie Thomas, "I never thought about it before, but he is cute. Too bad he's a sixth year." Natalie is wearing fine silk clothing and an ornate band of feathers on her head. She looks the picture of wealthy elegance. Her hair is perched in a bun on her head, sprayed in place countless times to ensure its longevity. The bun took an obscene amount of time, clocking in today at forty-five minutes total to produce the elegant hairstyle.

"There'll be so many cute blokes ours for the taking once we get out of here," Colleen smiles in wolfish anticipation. Natalie nods in agreement. The pair, like all seventh years, are counting down the days until they break free from the castle and are able to set out on their own. Roxanne can't help but wonder if she'll be the same in two years, celebrating every day that passes as one less that she'll be attending lessons and sleeping in her beautiful four-poster bed. She hopes not.

"Nobody is attractive in my year!" Roxanne laments, plucking at a little fuzz that landed on Natalie's elaborate bun. All the fifth year girls in the room nod in woeful agreement.

"Not one," Elena sighs.

"Well, there is Johnny," Catharine mentions, but her suggestion is met by the shaking of heads and clucking of tongues.

"He looks like a monkey." Colleen says firmly.

Roxanne stops fixing hair, pausing to fasten Alex's coat at the waist, "go and do wonderful!" She ushers the fourth year through the heavy wooden door and towards the stage. It is the same blessing she gives every night before setting her human masterpieces off to perform.

The door doesn't swing closed before Henry darts in. "Ladies," he tips an imaginary hat and Roxanne giggles lightly. He stands in the doorway briefly looking toward the black-clad Roxanne to make sure it is alright to enter.

"Oh, there are no naked women here," she affirms, smiling.

"What a shame," he smirks, "I was really hoping for a few." She can't help but laugh a little at the solemn tone with which he speaks, each word seeming weighty and important. She bows theatrically and waves her hand in the direction of the group. "Thank you m'lady," he tips the imaginary hat again. Color rises in her cheeks, a dreadful blush which paints the even mocha tone lightly pink.

He takes a seat in one of the green chairs clustered around the stained wood paneling that serves to hold make up, brushes, hair pins, and mirrors. The cracked leather of the chair is an unnatural mint, which clashes with the lavender walls and orange flooring. She thinks about the dreadful color combination, and wonders briefly what the response would be should she mention it, but the topic of conversation is so far removed from her thoughts that she cannot work it in.

"Okay, okay," Natalie says with a radiant smile, "how about this one? A horse walks into a bar, the bartender says 'so why the long face?'" Colleen gives a small laugh, the musical giggle joined by Catharine and Elena as they each take a moment to process the punch-line.

"The horse says nothing," Henry dead-pans, "horses can't talk. In fact, the horse doesn't even know it's in a bar, it's just lost and confused." All around Roxanne, the girls respond with giggles.

"It is possible the horse isn't even in a bar," Roxanne smirks, "how would the horse get in a bar in the first place?"

Henry thinks about that for a minute, processing her question in his head as her own thoughts jumble around how good he looks in the all black uniform techies are forced to wear. "It was mere happenstance."

"Than we should take into account that the circumstances, happenstance, that allow for a horse to be in a bar in the first place might also allow for the horse to respond to this question of condition." Roxanne responds, leaning forward.

He gives a low whistle, looking her up and down with an appraising eye, "I'm Henry,"

"Roxanne," she smiles at him, pleased to have found someone to appreciate her witty humour. At home, her father's jokes, while funny, are much too vulgar to produce laughter from her cherry lips.

"Well, Roxy," he grins, his eyes sparkling in a way that makes her feel short for breath.

"Roxanne," she corrects him with a quiet voice; he seemed to have stolen all the air from her lungs.

"I'm going to call you Roxy." He says, nodding up and down. She almost says that he can call her anything as long as he keeps talking to her, but just thinking to words causes her to flush, and he's already turned away to tell another joke.

Their friendship is easy, full of wit and laughter and him running his fingers along her sides to produce squeals. He appears from corridors she thought empty, sneaking around her slender frame unnoticed until the opportune moment arrives to gently jab a finger into her stomach and give a whoop of victory. She never does win these wars of theirs', preferring to instead notice how warm his hands are on her body in the mere moments that the two collide.

And how the do collide! Like stars in the sky, forming sparks of laughter and the light of shining happiness. And she thinks she loves him, his funny jokes and clever remarks, his wide blue eyes and broad mouth.

Yes, she's certain she does.

**a/n: **Don't favorite or alert without reviewing. In fact, don't read without reviewing! And you've already read this, so you have to review.


	10. Boys Like Him

**Word vomit. Seriously, that's the title of my Word doc for this and that's about as accurate as it'll get. This is word vomit but it also is very true and I think there are parts of it that are worth reading. Maybe that's just my vanity talking. **

**Anyway, I imagine Roxanne pining in this one. I don't know who the boy would be. Maybe Scor? Roxanne just seems like the type to try to sit down and write and then get angry when things are jumbled and not beautiful. She seems just the type to want everything to be linear and beautiful.**

**Or maybe that's just me.**

**Listen to: Sara Bareilles- "City"**

I am trying to write again. I'm also trying to forget, but that's a different story entirely. Actually, maybe it isn't. I can't remember how to tell a story anymore, that's how long it's been since I've written. All I know is that it's time for me to put a pen to paper again, time to just hope there are words because it's time for me to remember how to be happy again. I'm trying to write. Please forgive me if the sentences seem a little wrong, forgive their jolts and the lack of iambic pentameter because this won't sound natural. It'll sound wrong. It sounds wrong. I'm sorry for not writing like I should, it's just been so long.

It's been so long.

* * *

><p>I saw him in my dreams and he stroked my cheek and told me he'd love me forever and ever and I didn't believe him because, even in sleep, my heart is too heavy. I told him to prove himself anything but a liar but he just smiled and kissed me and oh! oh I cannot tell you how sweet his lies can be.<p>

I wrote once about a little girl with a lunchbox and he read it and said I am adept at manipulating metaphors into something greater and I smiled because to love my writing is to love me and I thought he could love me. I thought he would love me. So I wrote him a love poem and let him read that and he sung its praises. I pretended he was singing my name. Oh! how sweet his lies are.

* * *

><p>I feel like a naïve idealist or a child, maybe they're one and the same, so I sip warm milk to try to nurse this broken heart. I have at once thrown my head to the sky to stare at the stars and cried out every name of all the people wronged to the heavens. A prayer and a compliant, maybe sacrilege or maybe fully human.<p>

I do not want my God to be a wrong one. The god of children dying and people leaving and dreams getting crushed is not the God of the constellations and sunsets and tulips in the spring. It cannot be the same. I do not know who to pray to at this moment.

I don't know if anyone ever does.

* * *

><p>Is this a story? I have no beginning except that of time and I suppose there'll be no end because the clocks are still running, but as a writer (am I a writer?) I should have both. I don't.<p>

I'm sorry, I told him. Sorry. Sorry for thinking and feeling and allowing myself to be a wind-up doll and allowing myself to fall. I'm sorry for being wholly imperfect and too flawed to be whole because I've always promised to be more and I'm sorry-

I'm sorry this isn't a story. It's been so long.

* * *

><p>He said that he believes in love, so I believed in him. I believed in him and his mathematical equations, him and his chemistry sets, him and his calculations for everything, anything and I told myself that love could be poured from a beaker to a test tube and I didn't let myself cry when the reaction was volatile.<p>

Now I'm not telling the story right. The reaction was neutral. I didn't let myself cry when it didn't bubble over, didn't explode or turn hot pink. I didn't let myself react when he didn't react and that's not chemistry, that's life.

* * *

><p>I drew a heart on my wrist for love. To remind myself of love. To remind myself of the way I smile at the moon and the way I sing off-key and the way I bite my lip while I read and the way I know how to be still and the way I will be loved one day.<br>I have to do that a lot these days, remind myself that I will be loved one day.

I will be loved one day.

* * *

><p>Life may be a game of tug-of-war and we may always be on the losing side. I am caught between forgetting and remembering and I am caught between loving and hating and I don't know how to find the right words to tell him that I miss him. I am a writer (am I a writer yet?) without words and I am a lover without a voice and I am a little girl without rainboots, so you must know that I cannot traverse these puddles right now. I am an optimist without a cup of my own; half empty, half full, I am too thirsty to care but all I have is a sieve and the holes always leak out the life before I get a drink.<p>

I am a zealot without a cause and a lover without a love and I am getting so tired of going to bed alone.

I am gathering up my words and throwing forth my voice and finding a dusty pair of rainboots, digging through the cupboard to find a glass, digging through my journals to find a cause, digging though my heart to find a love and I am nothing if not everything that I always knew I could be.

Maybe that's just the optimist in me talking.

* * *

><p>I am not writing this for him and when he reads it, when he is reading it, he should know that it is absolutely not about him at all. And if he thinks it is about him, he should know he is wrong.<p>

He is always wrong. Wrong in the coming and wrong in the leaving and wrong, so wrong, in his timing. Because boys with words like rivers and eyes like oceans should never pretend they're anything other than broken and those broken boys should never carry the moon in their pockets and dust constellations over my cheeks because it's been a long time, too long a time, since I saw the sun. I don't bother saying that my skin doesn't freckle in the light because boys like him, they want the story. They don't listen to logic and they don't heed gravity.

Boys like him are quick to tell me that I can fly and, for some reason, vanish moments before I hit the ground. They just want me to fall so they can say "I loved her, I loved the girl with stardust on her cheekbones. I loved her and I saw her fall from the sky."

* * *

><p>If I could write better, I'd write about how his lips could've kissed mine if not for the air, thick like maple syrup, like honey, between us. But he's words! all words and I am so tired of words right now.<p>

They don't mean anything anymore. He doesn't mean anything anymore. He-

He never meant anything to me.

(I'm lying again. I'm not telling the story right.)

* * *

><p>The world, this world, doesn't end in fire. It doesn't end in ice. It ends every moment every lonely heart becomes too heavy to love again. It ends again and again when the ephemeral turns red and yellow and orange and falls off the trees into piles on the ground and it ends when we become too old to jump in each pile with a shout and a grin. It ends every autumn and it stays dormant for a little while.<p>

It's been so long since I've been alive.

It's been so long since I've written.

* * *

><p>I am sorry this isn't a story.<p>

I told him I was sorry I couldn't be more.

I am sorry this isn't more.

Sometimes there's no more to give.

* * *

><p>I am trying to tell a story about a girl, not so little any longer, and the way she would've kissed the planes of his face but I am that girl and I feel so little and he turned away before I could catch his lips. I am trying to write about a boy, two thousand miles and a ribcage like armor protecting his heart away but I can't think of the word to describe him. I can't think of what to say except that I'm sorry.<p>

It's been so long since I've written and I've forgotten what to say.


End file.
